Behind The Scenes
by Rabidnar
Summary: An intoxicated Remy doesn't want to be herself anymore, but can she convince Arizona to play the twisted game of denial with her?


Okay. So...the explanation behind the weird story. Sometimes when I'm out of muse (which is all the time), I continue to practice my writing by taking a movie or short film and writing it down...only changing the characters. The script and setting usually stay the same. Anyone who read Where Butterflies Never Die knows what I'm talking about, because that was one of those kinds of stories.  
>Anyway! The setting and script do not belong to me. It is a short film by Marc Webb called L.A. Suite. Very great film.<br>Out of boredom, I thought I'd write it down...and then I decided to post it.  
>Keep in mind before you read, that it's completely ooc. I imagine it takes place after recent events in both shows (or after SF if you've read that), but it's AU and out of character. So don't go whining about the ooc-ness, 'cause I was writing it just to write. Plus, I know absolutely nothing about Arizona minus that she's gorgeous.<br>So **Disclaimer: **I own neither House, Grey's Anatomy, nor the script for this story.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Arizona's POV:<strong>

_Part 1:_  
>It had been something you were looking forward to for weeks. Not because you were going to have to sit through The National Association of Medical Professionals lecture hour upon hour about licensing and certification, but because you were in Orlando. The warm air and blinding sun provided a stark contrast against Seattle's icy winds and cloudy skies. Plus, there was Disney World, and even as an adult, who wouldn't be excited about America's most famous theme park? It was something you had been looking forward to.<p>

Callie had been looking forward to it to, though apparently not for the same reasons. The two of you had spent days daydreaming until late in the night, discussing how it would be just like a second honeymoon - minus the boring medical conferences, of course. It was going to be perfect, and it was going to be just the two of you. All other co-workers were to be avoided outside the meetings, left to fend for themselves for fun.

The first day had gone so well. The fight had come out of nowhere, striking you down like a bolt of lightening out of a clear sky.

The hotel hall was dimly lit, not surprising since the meeting had run an hour late. It was nearly eleven and the door was shut with the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging deviously on the handle, its fiery red letters glaring at you. It had been nearly twenty-minutes you had been standing outside with your arms hanging limply at your sides and a dead expression on your face. You had seen who your wife had run to after your argument. There was always one co-worker who got in the way of everything.

Footsteps echo through the hall, and you can see the woman walking by give you a half-smile. Maybe it's more like a smirk, but you're too busy reading the hotel room number on repeat. It's like a mantra in your head. While you could be thinking about all the things going on inside the room, all your brain can say is '815'. _815. 815. 815. 815. 815._ Maybe if you read it enough, the numbers will change and you'll just be standing in front of the wrong room.

The footsteps stop and the woman spins on her heel then doubles back and stops a few inches away from you. She pulls her earphones out of her ears and tilts her head to the side than steps a few centimeters closer. "Hello?" she asks.

You get a slight whiff of the sweetish-sour stench of alcohol on her breath. Part of you thinks you should answer, but you just furrow your brows and continue staring at the door.

"Ma'am," she continues, starting to sound rather insistent. "Are you okay?"

Something about her tone has this pure compassion in it, as if you're both facing the world together. As much as it's none of her business, the raw sympathy draws you in and you stop her just as she's turning to walk away. "I think my wife is in there," you answer then pause, "with a man…" Your voice is hoarse even though you haven't been crying.

She turns and takes a few steps back toward you again.

"Mark Sloan," you ramble, barely in touch with the fact your words are suddenly out of your head and in the open. You sniffle. "He's probably already slept with half the women here."

"I'm sorry," she lulls, pursing her lips together. She turns to the side and glances at the door, chewing on the inside of her cheek before looking at you then at the door once again. After a loud inhale and exhale then several more glances between you and the door, she straightens up. "You gonna knock?" she inquires.

You clench your jaw and try not to start grinding your teeth together. Your hands curl into tight fists and your nails begin to dig into your palms. _815. 815. 815._

"Hm," she hums then shakes her head. "Maybe you shouldn't."

"Why?" you whisper, not seeing any reason stopping you besides your own fear.

"Mm." She smiles and shrugs. "Sometimes it's better not to know." She runs her fingers through her long, brunette locks then looks up at you. "And you already look pretty roughed up," she adds. "This…this could do you in."

You're about to tell her you doubt anything could really _do you in_, but she continues speaking.

"No, I think that you should come downstairs and have a drink at the bar with me." She turns her head and flips her hair to the side then continues staring at you with enticing blue-green eyes.

You turn your head to get a good look at her, which you immediately recognize as a bad idea. She's obviously intoxicated and possibly even trying to seduce you, but there's this mutual understanding that draws you in.

"Yeah," she answers then brushes her hand along your elbow. She points to the elevator with a tilt of her head.

Xxxxx

_Part 2:_  
>You sit backwards on the barstool with your legs stretched out in front of you. Your feet are barely touching the floor, but your tense posture hopefully gives off an unapproachable vibe. The brunette is beside you, deciding on both of your orders and making sure the bartender gets them right. She leans over and pulls the glasses forward.<p>

_815. _You stand and walk away, making your way toward the hotel lobby. Maybe you should knock on the door. Maybe you should catch the next flight back to Seattle. You notice her following you. "Thanks for the drinks, but I've gotta go," you tell her and try to dismiss her with a wave of your hand.

"Why?" she asks loudly, picking up speed then turning to walk backwards in front of. "You go upstairs , you find out she's made a fool of you, you get divorced, it takes _years_ to recover - depending on how pretty she is, and you end up alone wishing none of this had ever happened." She comes to a stop in front of you and brushes her hand across your shoulder. "Doesn't sound smart."

You swallow a lump forming in the back of your throat. No, it doesn't sound smart. Decisions shouldn't be made when you're upset, though advice some drunk stranger is giving you can't be all that reliable either. You don't want to lose your wife, but can you handle the fact she might have slept with someone else - again? "So, about those drinks…" you croak.

Xxxxx

_Part 3:_  
>"This is the second time this has happened," you find yourself ranting after your second drink. "The first time led to a pregnancy scare. What if this one leads to the actual thing? And God only knows what kind of STDs the man has picked up while he's been here…"<p>

She finishes the last sip of her drink then holds her hand up. "Stop," she demands. "Never mind. You're depressing me. I don't wanna be depressed."

You turn your head away from her and tap your fingers on the bar.

She sighs and touches your hand. "Let's play a game," she suggest, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She turns to the side and smirks at you.

"What kind of game?" you ask, your gaze focused on her cat-like eyes.

"We have another drink," she replies with a glance toward the bartender. "We converse. I touch your arm occasionally to put you at ease." She lets her hand slide down the bare skin of your forearm, sending a shiver up your spine. "It's like any other night," she assures you. "Except there are three very important rules." Her grin widens. "Rule number one: No real names or identities." She pauses then continues strongly. "Rule number two: You have to make me feel _good_ about myself."

You glance away then look back at her.

"Rule number three," she ends. "Never break character." She settles down on her barstool. "So, what's your name?"

You run your tongue across your lips and shift around uncomfortably. "I don't like games," you murmur, trying to focus your eyes anywhere but on her. Sure, you love all of those board games up in PEDs, but real games?

"Clearly!" she answers. "That's why your wife is fucking a man-whore. Most women love games; it's what we're good at. Now, what's your name?"

You rub your hands up and down your upper legs, taking a moment to try to plan your escape. You can feel her eyes on you though, and you suddenly find yourself looking at her again, studying her. Something feels like it goes deeply beyond her intoxication. "Heather," you finally answer with the first name that comes to mind.

"Heather," she repeats with a smile, letting the name roll off of her tongue. "That's so ordinary. It's like someone just made it up."

Better than being named after a state. "Yeah," you shoot. "Well, what's your name?"

She picks up her drink and swirls it around, staring at the liquid for a moment. "Thirteen," she answers, not losing the confidence in her voice. She takes a drink and smirks against the glass. "Probably the number of women your man-whore has fucked besides your wife tonight."

"You're cruel," you inform her, but the alcohol causes you to smirk back at her.

"Moi?" She winks then puts her glass down again.

"What do you do for a living?" you ask, your seriousness suddenly coming back. Your usually bubbly personality is locked up tight somewhere, possibly because the whole situation is tantalizingly confusing and you're not even sure what you're thinking.

"I'm an actress," she answers. "What do you do, Heather?"

"I'm a photographer. I take photographs." You turn your body on the stool to face her then grab your drink and take a long swallow. If you're going to play along, you might as well do it well.

"I knew I recognized you," she states, the false realization spreading across her face enough to almost fool you. "You shot me before, do you remember?"

"Yeah, for that magazine," you reply.

"That's right!" She touches your arm. "That magazine!"

You take another swig of your drink while simultaneously abandoning all sense of decency. "I shot you nude," you answer slyly then wait for her reaction.

"Oooh." She briefly rests her hand under her chin and quirks her eyebrows.

"Except for the roller skates and the bustier." You wave your finger in the air as you down the rest of your drink in one swallow. Everything feels a bit fuzzy and you can feel your muscles slowly relaxing. "You used to fuck this old guy," you inform her, slurring a bit. The sparkle of amusement in her eyes keeps you going. "What was his name?"

"Mick?" she guesses.

"Nope, nope," you shake your head.

"Bruce?" she tries again, practically jumping out of her seat like she's about to win a prize if she gets it right.

"Mm mm," you deny her answer again. "It was like…like Heraldo."

"Heraldo," she mouths as if she's actually trying to remember the occasion.

"Hispanic guy?" You try to help the false memory along. You can almost picture it in your mind yourself. "But not Hispanic," you contradict yourself, furrowing your brows. "Though he had a long pinky nail."

"Oh." She squeezes her eyes together and turns her head away for a moment in shame. "That was a rough spot." She shakes the embarrassment quickly and gazes at you again. "But we all have rough spots, don't we, Heather?" She takes her sunglasses off the top of her head and puts them on you.

You take a moment to adjust to the dim light. "Yes, we do," you agree.

"Two more, please," she orders the bartender.

You turn away and quickly pull the glasses off, a brief moment of lucidity attacking you with fear and the need to protect your dignity. It fades almost as quickly as it came.

Xxxxx

_Part 4:_  
>The two of your carry your drinks out onto the deck-like porch by the pool and shrink down onto a wooden bench. It's quieter outside. Swimming hours ended long ago, and the only other people outside are focused on making out several feet away.<p>

"So, tell me, Heather, why photography?" she asks, leaning to the side and supporting her weight with her hand.

It takes a moment to sink in that you need a reason for the job you picked. "I'm obsessed with light," you answer, gliding your finger around the rim of your glass. "I'm obsessed with image." You pause. "Focus, composition, money," you add. "Models." You glance at her and smile. Everything that you're really not seems to be pouring out of your mouth in a twisted lie. "Drugs." You stop touching your glass and make a few ambiguous hand-motions. You need some truth, even while drunk. "You see, photographers, they're not the center of attention, but they're always back here, controlling everything. Their jokes are always funny, their stories are always electric, and they are never ever dull." Maybe it's not exactly the truth, but some of what you wish the truth really was. "People don't betray photographers, because they have this quality that…they're…they're so…" You wrack your jumbled mind for the right word.

"Cool," she supplies smoothly.

"Yeah," you agree and rub your arm. "They're cool."

She leans forward and rests her hands on yours.

Xxxxx

_Part 5:_  
>"D'you wanna photograph me?" she asks, pressing herself back against a hotel room door. It's directly across from your room, where you planned on stopping and staring some more, even though you were trying to convince yourself that you were going to go inside. "You must," she insists.<p>

"I don't have a camera," you answer, keeping your back to your room.

"Rule number four," she sighs. "Never deny _I want to be photographed_." She lifts her arms above her head, causing her grey t-shirt to slide up and expose her stomach.

You stare at her for a moment, hesitant that Callie will walk out and see you. Why are you the one worrying? "Pull your hair back," you demand quietly.

She lowers her arms a bit and gathers her hair then pulls it behind her head.

You reach forward and tilt her chin up a bit with your fingers then let your hand trail across her silky smooth cheek. You study her almost exotic features for a moment before dropping your hand and taking a step back. "Turn and face the wall." You reach forward and grab her by the elbow then spin her around.

Playing pretend was never that much of a challenge for you, especially after years of working with children. You pull an invisible camera from your pocket and check the lenses then load the film. "Okay," you say slowly. "Now turn around and look at me."

She turns to the side and straightens her posture, pulling her shoulders back and holding her head high. A slight, barely noticeable smile plays across her lips.

"Good," you murmur, watching her. "Now look at me coy."

She loosens her posture and watches you hesitantly, fumbling her hands against the wall.

"Good," you repeat. "Now jealous." The emotion that comes to your head makes you want to turn around and stare at your door, but you continue playing her little game.

She clenches her jaw and lets a darkness overwhelm her, the emotion almost too real.

"_Jealous_," you say again, trying to get a little more out of her.

The smile fades from her lips and she pushes herself back against the door, glaring at nothing in particular.

"Now scared," you tell her, your voice barely above a whisper.

She widens her eyes and parts her lips, bringing her fisted hands up close to her face. That one doesn't last long. In a matter of milliseconds, she's grinning again and stretching her hands up over her head.

"Okay, no, no, no." You shake your head and glance up from your imaginary camera. "Don't flirt with me."

She chuckles and lowers her hands, straightening the bottom of her shirt. "I don't flirt," she states indignantly. "I'm a professional." Holding her head high, she spins and begins walking down the hall, away from you.

Sighing, you let the imaginary camera drop and throw your hands in the air as you hit your head lightly back against the wall. You take a few small steps in her direction then stop yourself. Distractions are useless. As much as you want to spend time with the beautiful woman, you're already taken. Sort of. You turn to face your door again. You reach a hand forward and let it rest on the cool wood.

She comes to a halt and glances back at you, rocking back on her heels then forward on flat feet again. Her smile has faded. "Rule number five," she says slowly as she makes her way back to you. Her hands rest on your shoulders and she rests her chin on her hands, her lips close to your ear. "Smell my perfume."

You turn your head so your faces are just centimeters apart and inhale silently. The stench of alcohol is overpowering the comforting scent of vanilla so you inch closer.

"_Just_ my perfume," she says and takes a step back. She takes you by the elbow again and pulls you in the direction of her hotel room.

Xxxxx

_Part 6:_  
>The mascara and lip gloss she's gliding on aren't really necessary. Thirteen has enough beauty that she doesn't need them. You grip her Polaroid and wonder if she has a camera because she seduces all of her women like you. It was your choice to be a photographer though, you remind yourself.<p>

You've never really taken photographs before. Sure, there was always the disposable cameras and occasional digital pictures for your laptop, but they weren't even close to professional. They were just random snapshots of occasions you never wanted to forget. The angles were usually off and the lighting was always bad, but they served their sentimental purpose. Now you were expected to take a picture that looked like it belonged in a magazine, weren't you?

Then again, you're both slightly drunk. If your pictures needed to be trashed, you could just chock it up to the alcohol making your hands quiver. You lift the camera and begin snapping random shots of her fussing with her hair and applying makeup. The pictures fall to the floor and you let them scattered there.

She stands from her chair then lowers herself to the floor to pose for you. It takes very little effort for her to match up to her created profession. You're almost surprised she didn't say model instead of actress. She's not the most graceful person, but even drunk she manages to make up for that with a multitude of seductive facial expressions. Some people are just naturally photogenic, and you have no doubt that she is one of those people.

She wants her photo taken all over the place and in any position she can think of. Every inch and object in the room seems to have a picture taken of it with her by the time you're finished. You turn on some soft music and light a few candles to enhance the mood, but you're relationship stays strictly 'professional'. Even when you think about sneaking a picture or two in your pocket to take with you, you decide against it.

You're not quite sure what you're doing or even how you got yourself into this kind of odd situation at this point. It's all a distraction though, you remind yourself, and a pretty damn good one.

Xxxxx

_Part 7:_  
>"You're very good, Heather." Thirteen has gathered up the hundreds of photos and seated herself in front of the mirror again. She's going through them one by one, tossing them into different piles on the desk. "You are passionate."<p>

You lean back against the wall and rub your face then scoot around on the stool that you're sitting on. "Do you know where the word passion comes from?" you ask her, tilting your head to the side to get a better view of her face.

"No," she answers and holds up a photo. "And I don't like my nose in that one."

"It comes from the Latin word 'passio'," you inform her, despite her obvious lack of interest, "which means to suffer."

"Mm," she hums in boredom, furrowing her brows at one of the pictures.

"So if you say that someone is passionate about something," you continue, "that means that they're willing to suffer for it." You glance up at the ceiling. "I think that's beautiful."

"You're breaking rule number three, Heather," Thirteen informs you and points a finger. She shows you yet another photo. "Good angle." She puts the photos down. "And you're boring me."

"Well, obviously, celebrities must have a different tolerance for boredom," you shoot, frowning a bit. "Because we've been drinking the same alcohol, and listening to the same music, and having the same conversation, yet you're bored and I'm enthralled." You furrow your brows at her.

She grins and turns to look back at you. "Do you think I'm a celebrity?" she questions. "Well, I mean it's true I am a working actress," she informs you as she turns her back to you again. "And I'm about to hire a publicist."

"Why do you act?" you inquire, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees. "You enjoy lies?"

Her smile fades and the same darkness as earlier envelopes her again. "Not lies," she mumbles softly. "Games," she corrects you. She swallows and sits there in silence for a moment before speaking up again. "Am I prettier than your wife?"

"Rule number two," you sigh. "Yes."

"I think I'm prettier than she is," she says, staring blankly at the mirror.

"You've never met her," you remind her.

She pushes herself to her feet and walks around her chair.

"What's your name?" you ask her. Maybe it's the doctor in you, but there's a strong urge to care for her that you just can't shake.

She curls up on her side at the bottom of her bed, tucking one arm under her head and resting the other in front of her with her hand under her chin. "Maybe she's smart," she muses. "Some women like that. Clever girls, it's a fetish."

"What's your name?" you insist, watching her purse her lips to form a straight line.

"Still," she says after a moment and looks you in the eye, "chances are I'm prettier."

You get to your feet and walk over to her then sit almost sideways behind her with your feet still on the floor. You rest most of your weight on one of your elbows then hover your hand over her side. After a moment, you slowly rub your palm against her shoulder.

"I don't think you should touch me," she murmurs and closes her eyes.

"I'm not touching you," you deny. "I'm feeling you." That's something a photographer or some kind of artist would say, right? Not only do they have a way with manipulating pictures, but they have a way with words also.

"Okay," she whispers. Keeping her eyes shut, she rolls over onto her back. "Just don't touch me."

"I promise," you assure her. You slide the back of your hand along her jaw line and she leans into you like a cat. "What's your name?" you mumble. If she's here, she must be a doctor. Somewhere in there is a person with a real name, a real profession, a real life, and possibly one hell of a real story. Whoever she is, she must be fascinating. You slowly lower your face so it's only centimeters above hers, your lips just about brushing.

"Thirteen," she answers.

You slowly pull back again. Whoever she is, she must be broken beyond what you can possibly fathom. You'll never get the real chance to meet her, you know that much. You carefully stand and stare at her for a moment before walking out the door.

Xxxxx

_Part 8:  
>815. <em>You raise your fist to the door and knock.


End file.
